saying I had a toothache. This concealed my worst bruises. It was a transformation. I no longer resembled my former self. Then I struck out for that wire, found it and followed it to its den. It was a little room over a butcher’s shop—which meant that business wasn’t very brisk in the telegraphic line. The young chap in charge was drowsing at his table. I locked the door and put the vast key in my bosom. This alarmed the young fellow, and he was going to make a noise; but I said:
“Save your wind; if you open your mouth you are dead, sure. Tackle your instrument. Lively, now! Call Camelot.”
“This doth amaze me! How should such as you know aught of such matters as—”
“Call Camelot! I am a desperate man. Call Camelot, or get away from the instrument and I will do it myself.”
“What—you?”
“Yes—certainly. Stop gabbling. Call the palace.”
He made the call.
“Now, then, call Clarence.”
“Clarence who ?”
“Never mind Clarence who. Say you want Clarence; you’ll get an answer.”
He did so. We waited five nerve-straining minutes—ten minutes—how long it did seem!—and then came a click that was as familiar to me as a human voice; for Clarence had been my own pupil.
“Now, my lad, vacate! They would have known my touch, maybe, and so your call was surest; but I’m all right now.”